(No, no Randy. You need like a big, huge, fiercely devoted blonde beardy cabaret singer, something along those lines.) Then it's later and Zoey's spinning madly on a chair while Jackie puts together IV bags, ruminating on pain: whether there's a finite amount of pain the world, and if by healing it that pain just pops up somewhere else. "Yes," Jackie says distractedly, "That's why there's drugs." Zoey follows her to a patient's bed while she's hooks it up on a stand. It's getting late, late in the day. Twelve and half hours and the boundless energy of Zoey Brakow is a lot to deal with, much less the problem of suffering. Without suffering, none of us would be here.

"Maybe God said, here, I want this much suffering to exist in the world. And you people can split it up any way you want, but I want exactly this much suffering." Jackie tells her this is all very interesting, but that it would obviously make God "kind of a prick"; Zoey covers the patient's feet and Jackie tells her to go home and turn her brain off for a bit. "I think you're a saint," Zoey says brightly, nothing but light in her eyes. "Just so you know." She walks away; she seems like she has a lot of secrets. Jackie almost smiles. The people with the greatest capacity for good at the ones with the greatest capacity for evil.

The patient's machine begins to beep; her body reacts before her brain, unhooking the bags she's just hooked up, like a hot potato. Her heart, her breath. The word gets hard, and cold, and bright again, and she pulls herself back into it. "Goddamn it," she whispers, "I almost killed you." Louder and louder, nearly crying, exhausted, hurting again, scared to shit. "I almost killed you!" she whisper-yells at the man. He goes on sleeping; she pats his arm but it's not enough. She leans over and kisses his forehead, desperately. Afraid and ashamed and hurting. The song starts up again.

Time to go. It's time to say goodnight. She sees Beth the Girlfriend asleep on a couch, without even cab fare; in the locker room she notices Dr. Ekebwe's taken a chart folder and spread it across her locker, with writing both nasty and passive-aggressive: "SERIOUSLY Do not touch my stuff." Well, that explains why she stole the bitch's pen. And why she's stealing her Uggs, now. She creeps into the Libyan's room, retrieving his money clip, and drops them both off with Beth, just like St. Nicholas, as the music swells. The settling of accounts.